James McGee - Resurrectionist

Hyde’s thin lips split for the first time. “My dear Captain, you don’t seriously think that’s what’s going to happen? You can’t be that naive. They don’t hang surgeons, Hawkwood. We’re at war. Who do you think is going to put all those wounded warriors back together again?”

Hawkwood said nothing. He could see that the look on Jago’s face was murderous.

Hyde gave a contemptuous snort. “Who was it you spoke with? McGrigor? That sanctimonious Scot! Calls himself the Surgeon-General? He might have succeeded him, but he’s not fit to clean John Hunter’s shoes. The man’s more concerned about offending God than serving the cause of science. What did he tell you? That they refused to hand me over because we don’t take orders from the French? You think that was the sole reason? You’ve been a soldier, Captain. You’ve seen inside the tents. You know what it’s like: the hopelessness, the futility. Think of the potential, if we can learn to harvest the dead to heal the living. If we can accomplish that, the possibilities are endless. Good God, man, you think I’d have been removed from duty if the Frogs hadn’t found that damned cellar? The reason they didn’t hand me over was because they need surgeons like me to heal British soldiers.

“You said it yourself: the worst they’ll do is put me back in Bedlam. The war won’t last for ever. When it’s over and the Frogs are back in their pond, I’ll be supping brandy in the officers’ mess. In the meantime, I’ll be able to renew my acquaintance with Dr Locke. As I said, not the brightest of fellows, but in a place like Bethlem one has to be grateful for what one can get. I’ll be needing a new chess opponent, though. Still, mustn’t grumble. The parson served his purpose. Interesting, the two of us meeting again. Strange coincidence, him visiting the hospital, don’t you think?

“You did know Tombs was an army chaplain? That we were colleagues back in Spain? Ah, perhaps not, from the look on your face. Why, he was a regular visitor to the hospital tents. The scars on his face — he got those courtesy of a French mortar round. I was the one who stitched him back together afterwards. Ironic, don’t you think? He was most grateful, mind you. Even offered to deliver letters for me when I was in hospital. You were right when you accused Eden of corresponding with me. The Reverend Tombs was our winged messenger, our Hermes.”

Hyde feigned forgetfulness. “But I digress. Where was I…? Ah, yes, I remember. No, they won’t hang us, Captain Hawkwood. We’re too damned valuable.”

“Not to me,” Hawkwood said.

Hyde’s eyes widened as, in a move almost too fast to follow, Hawkwood raised his pistol and squeezed the trigger.

He heard Carslow gasp. There was a flash, but that was all. In that instant Hawkwood knew the pistol had misfired. Although the flint had struck the frizzen and ignited the powder in the pan, the flash had failed to penetrate the hole in the side of the barrel. The only thing the pistol had discharged was smoke.

And Hyde was gone.

The man was fast. Hawkwood had forgotten how fast. One minute Hyde was there, the next he wasn’t.

“Door!” Jago threw his pistol up, brought it to bear. Hawkwood had a glimpse of a darting figure entering a patch of shadow beyond the arc of the candle glow and then it vanished.

“No!” Hawkwood pointed back at Carslow, who was standing open-mouthed, struck dumb by the escalation of events. “Mind him! Hyde’s mine!”

Hawkwood ran.

It was immediately apparent as he plunged through the doorway, that he’d entered a different world. There were no dingy passages here, no dark stairways, no bare boards. What he found instead was a long, portrait-lined corridor, with an open door at the far end. Not stopping to wonder at the contrast, he raced down the darkened corridor. Passing through the door, he found himself in what looked to be a large reception room, devoid of furniture. Neither was there artificial illumination, but the shutters on the tall windows were open, allowing the cold moonlight to pour in. He pulled up. Where was Hyde?

“Sawney said you were a bastard. He was right,” a voice said behind him.

Hawkwood spun. Hyde was standing perfectly still. A sword was in his hand, the point resting on the floor by his foot. He had divested himself of the blood-splattered apron. He looked perfectly at ease. His face was grey in the moonlight. His eyes were black and as hard as stone.

Hawkwood assumed Hyde had taken the sword from one of the racks on the wall. The room was lined with them. It was clear now why there was no furniture. This must have been where Hyde had obtained the sword-stick he’d been carrying the other evening. The selection of weapons displayed around the room’s perimeter was hugely impressive and would have done justice to a regimental armoury. There weren’t just swords, Hawkwood saw, there were pole-arms, too. Stilettos, sabres and foils vied for space with halberds, glaives, guisarmes and pikes.

“I can see you’re wondering where you are,” Hyde said. “This was Hunter’s house, too. He owned both properties. Go through those rooms and out of the front door and you’ll find yourself in Leicester Square. He had all this part built on afterwards — the operating room, everything. There was even a museum for his specimens. He welcomed his patrons and his patients through the door in Leicester Square and he took delivery of his bodies in Castle Street. Fascinating, isn’t it?

“They used to call this the conversazione room,” Hyde continued blithely. “It was his reception room. Curious that its purpose is now to do with the teaching of combat rather than the art of conversation. From soirees to swordplay, eh? Who’d have thought? They’ve preserved it rather well, though, don’t you think? The paintings aren’t the originals, of course. They were sold off with the rest of the contents when Hunter died. That’s when the main house was rented out. I’m not sure who was here before, but it’s a fencing academy now; a place for the sons of the nobility to learn the noble science. That’s what they call it, you know. Hunter would probably find that ironic, too.” Hyde gave a little laugh.

“Fortunately for me, the maitre d’armes is indisposed. He’s recovering from a rather severe wound inflicted by an over-enthusiastic pupil. By a happy coincidence he is also one of Eden Carslow’s patients. We had the place to ourselves until you blundered in.”

Hawkwood watched the blade. He wondered what his chances were of getting to a weapon. He wondered why Hyde hadn’t attacked him as soon as he’d entered the room. It occurred to him that it had probably been Hyde’s intention to lead him here in the first place.

Hawkwood gauged the distance to the wall. It would be close. The colonel was quick on his feet. He, on the other hand, was still wearing his bloody coat. That was bound to slow him down. There was no button on the point of Hyde’s weapon, Hawkwood saw.

“How’s the arm?” Hyde said. “I almost forgot to ask. If it’s giving you pain, you should let me take a look at it. The cut on your cheek looks as if it’s healing nicely, though.”

Hyde smiled suddenly. “By the way, did you know — and this really is a most extraordinary coincidence — that I attended the Delancey boy after you’d shot him? Couldn’t do anything for him, of course. He was stone dead. A pistol ball to the heart will do that.”

Hawkwood stared at him. Delancey had been the Guards’ officer he’d killed in a duel following the battle at Talavera. Delancey had called him out after Hawkwood accused him of recklessly endangering his men. But for Wellington’s intervention, Hawkwood would have been cashiered and shipped home. Instead, he’d joined Colquhoun Grant’s intelligence unit as liaison with the guerrilleros.